


Valentine

by fajrdrako



Category: Queen of Swords
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter must be written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my beta-readers, Vicky and Gail.

_The 14th February, 1817_

_My dear Colonel,_

_Sir: my patient has died. I have been up all night with him, bloody bandages and extracted bullets. Your aim is good, sir. Too good. You kept him alive long enough to tell you what you wanted to know. Then you shot him a second time, one last fatal bullet, and left him for my ministrations._

_A doctor is a useless thing, when you work faster than I possibly can._

Dr. Robert Helm put down his quill until his hands might stop shaking. He had left a blotch of ink in the margin. It would offend Luis’ sense of military precision.

Well - damn him to hell, anyway. Helm took a good still shot of whisky and ran his hands through his already disordered hair. His patient had been hardly more than a boy, too young to have married, too young for his full growth. But he was quite old enough for strength and love and ideals and hope, all blown to hell now, or heaven.

You’re better off in heaven, boy, thought Helm bitterly. Montoya will never find you there. It might be heaven in Montoya’s arms. It felt like heaven when he held Helm tightly, and Helm felt the rush of feeling that always came at the touch of that remorseless body, the intoxication of his kisses, the pain and pleasure of his bites and caresses - and like a drug, the euphoria of penetration and thrust that drove Helm out of his mind and into supreme ecstasy. Drove him to madness.

Exquisite madness. And, yes, it was sin, too, as Montoya well know, and revelled in.`

“Bastard,” whispered Helm, taking another drink of whisky. He had called him “beloved” last night, but that had been in another world where sensuality reigned. He drank with his right hand and touched his crotch with his left, feeling the remnants of the excitement the memory brought back. His hand tightened and quickened. His breath turned into a gasp, and then a groan of disappointment. Between drink and anger, the passion could not be brought back, not even with the bright memories of Montoya’s hands and the knowledge of his own arousal, desire, manipulation, need and shame.

The memories were confusingly pleasant. HE remembered how Montoya had devoured his lips, held his body firmly, teased his balls with experienced fingers. Helm had cried out Montoya’s name, had called him beloved, and the door tot he bedroom had not shut before he had climaxed the first time, with Montoya’s hand in his trousers and Montoya’s mouth at his throat.

He took a deep breath an dipped the quill in the ink once more, and wrote:

_You are a cad, sir, and a villain. I wish to have no more intercourse with you._

He stopped, staring at the words, and then crossed them out with angry strokes. He wrote again:

_I have been horrified by your cruelty and appalled by your harshness to the people of Santa Helena, as I will tell you when next I see you. Your autocracy is unconscionable. I will call on you tonight, sir, and voice my strong objections to you in person._

He stared at the paper, tapping the his fingers on the desk. It was not right. He tore the paper in half, taking satisfaction in the vicious destruction. He picked up the pen again and wrote:

_Sir: I write to you to say good-bye. I am leaving his heartless land._

He sat, looking at what he had written. Slowly he poured himself another drink with a cold, steady hand, like the hand he used for surgery. He looked at what he had written, and with equal care, held the paper to his candle. He watched curl and darken. He watched the words go up in smoke: heartless, leaving, bye, until only good was left. Then there was nothing.

He stared at the last blank piece of paper. He closed his eyes, and whispered, “Beloved.”

After another moment, he wiped the pen, capped the ink, and put the paper, ink, and pen into his drawer. He spoke softly into the shadows. “My Colonel, I will come to you tonight.”

 


End file.
